Raptoriva (Chapters 1–5)

RAPTORIVA (rap-toh-REE-vah)

Clade: Microraptoria  Wingspan: 13-16 in  Weight: 1-2 lbs

Small, four-winged, paravian dinosaur. Capable of short-range powered flight and long-range gliding through the use of pennaceous feathers on both front and rear limbs. Scales and plumage are medium to dark iridescent green, with occasional markings of red.

The Runaqan Compendium of Reptiles

CHAPTER 1

A small, toothy snout slipped through the opening of Qora’s knapsack. Qora nudged it back inside and tightened the drawstring.

“Shhh,” she said, although there was no one in the woods to bear witness. And had there been anyone, they would have been more likely to notice the eoraptor carcass she was carrying. She shifted under the weight of the twenty-five-pound dinosaur slung over her shoulder and strained her ears to pick apart the sounds around her.

First, a low growl in the distance, which most certainly belonged to one of the armored struthiosaurs that made their homes in burrowed holes. The clicky back-and-forth of dromaeosaurs, a pack of four—Qora scrunched one eye and tilted her head—no, six—less than a quarter mile off. Wind whistling through mountain conifers. The burble of water. The punctuating cries of a rhamphorhynchus exactly seven seconds apart. Finally, the gentle vibrations of a herd of protoceratops migrating across the meadow on the other side of the stream, number indeterminate. But even though it had been four years, no sound could ever completely drown out Ollan’s voice in her mind, screaming her name.

Qora—run!

A familiar ache swelled in her chest. She rubbed her thumb along her crossbow foregrip three times, touched the trigger with the pad of her index finger, and checked that the bowstring was taut against the bolt in the flight groove—always loaded, always ready. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Her knapsack wriggled, which prompted her to pick up speed. She hurried onward, avoiding the large piles of ruck that dotted the forest floor. Her black dinoleather boots were already covered in mud, the soles and laces caked with it; she didn’t need reptile waste on them too.

Fifth Bell tolled from the campanario, audible even though the city of Qhusi could barely be seen from here, particularly through the mists that surrounded its mountaintop locale.

Qora counted the bell’s chimes silently as they went off. One, two, three, four, five.

Out of breath and breaking a sweat, she adjusted the eoraptor, with its dead eyes and copper-toned scales. It had taken her most of the day, crouching in the underbrush, before she’d finally hit it, which on its own had been a stroke of luck to find—but it had been several minutes after that when she’d spotted a godsend. Something more valuable than months’ worth of other trades combined, scales green and iridescent and shimmering like a gem, with four wings and a coarsely feathered tail. It had only taken a bit of dried meat, laced with the sleep-inducing nectar of puñuy blossoms, to lure it to her. Now she just had to wait for the puñuy to take effect. She hushed the knapsack again, but it had already begun to settle down, internal movements slower, more lethargic.

This was a dangerous game to play; Qora knew that. But she thought of what awaited her at home, and she had to believe it would be worth the risk.

Soon, the capital city broke through the mists that clung to its perimeter. Qhusi was the closest place in Sumaq to the High World, people always said, because its citizens practically lived among the clouds, although Qora often thought the clouds were good at hiding things nobody wanted known.

She moved out of the trees to see a sprawl of stones climbing up the domed earth. Retaining walls created tiered levels where shops, homes, and gardens had been built. Stairways snaked between buildings. Other mountains, with their sacred spirits, jutted up in a protective panorama.

Only then did Qora let her crossbow hang against her hip by its woven strap that she wore across her chest. She hurried through the side streets, panting up the incline, bypassing teams of stegosaurians yoked together packing down new gravel on the roads.

She reached the main roadway, which cut the city in half. All along its cobblestone sidewalks, vendors had stands set up with every imaginable product on display. Dyed and woven fabrics. Dinoleathers made into belts, bags, shoes, and riding gloves. Jewelry made from wooden beads, forged metal, colored stones, or reptile teeth and feathers. Barrels full of quinoa, amaranth, maize, and maca. Meats hanging with their swirled pink flesh.

Qora maneuvered through until the central buildings were visible, along with the traffic that flowed between them. Ankylosaurs transporting sacks of grain, city officials with their copper helmets patrolling the streets on megaraptors, common single riders on rhabdodons, and the occasional triceratops with feathered bony frill carrying the wealthy in canopied seat boxes.

Even in her haste, though, Qora couldn’t help but pause to glance up at the castle carved into the side of the adjacent mountain. Kallpa House—accessible only by flight—loomed over the city, serving as a reminder that the qhapaq, the supreme leader who lived there, was both physically and spiritually high above everyone else. The bulk of the castle had been chiseled and shaped from the mountain rock itself, while additional walls and embellishments were layered and fit together from external rocks. Enormous black pterobeasts with eighty-foot wingspans flew back and forth across the divide, carrying important members of the household in gondolas that hung from ropes harnessed to the reptiles’ bodies. What must it be like, Qora thought, to travel that way, peering down as the world shrank?

“Two days!” Cried a sharp voice, calling her attention back to her lowly place. A man stood in the city square, shouting into a horn that amplified his voice. “Two days left to enter the Venture!” 

Good, Qora thought. Two days and she wouldn’t have to hear these stupid announcements anymore. She was glad the Venture only happened every five years. She’d been twelve when the last one was held in the neighboring land of Unu, and too young to care much the time before that. Unfortunately, this year’s event would be hosted on her home Terrain, making its promotion more difficult to escape—for two more days at least. 

By the time she reached her destination, Qora’s dark braids were frayed, hair stuck to the back of her neck and edge of her forehead. Her skin felt flushed and humid, which she suspected had more to do with what was in her knapsack than it did with her physical exertion. For now, the creature it held remained motionless, but she couldn’t be sure for how long. 

The building before her was that of the old marketplace, more than a hundred years ago when the city hadn’t been so vast. Now its upper levels were home to fabricators of rough-spun clothing and shoddy tools, while the subterranean level was its own sort of market known as the Underground. 

Inside, Qora let down the hood of her green bayeta hunting jacket. A wave of fermentation filtered into her nose, and the din of haggling traders overwhelmed her ears.

She gazed at the row of taxidermied dinosaur heads that lined the far wall, mostly medium-sized bipeds, each frozen mid-bite and mounted on polished wood. Mismatched tables were littered with beverage cups and gambling tokens, along with items of value (gold rings, rare reptile feathers, and bottles of foreign liquors). Thirty or so people sat throughout the dim space with money and goods between them. On the other side, a few dozen more were cheering and howling around a large enclosure, watching two shirtless men go at each other with their fists.

Gorgo—“The Gorgosaur”—had bags under his eyes today, although his muscles bulged as they always did and he bared his teeth as menacingly as ever. His opponent, Qora didn’t recognize. Young, maybe eighteen, disheveled with dark, shaggy hair. He wasn’t short, but Gorgo’s large form dwarfed him nonetheless.

When the boy moved, Qora’s pulse rushed. His rhythm, the way he reacted to each strike like he knew in advance when it would be coming. It was more of a dance than a brawl. Qora sucked in a breath when he nearly took a blow to the jaw, but he was slippery as smoke. Gorgo’s fist was nothing but a kiss on the boy’s cheek.

Sakay, whose uncle ran the Underground, stood near the back counter with his tattooed arms crossed, watching the fight with a wry smile. He scratched the side of his head where his black hair was cut close to the scalp, geometric designs shaved into it. Longer hair was tied in a knot near the crown of his head. His ears were pierced with obsidian studs and he wore a necklace whose charm was a dinosaur tooth the size of Qora’s thumb. Twenty years old and he helped run this place like a middle-aged chieftain, as shrewd as most of the better traders when it came to negotiations.

Qora wove between the tables to get to him, graceless with the carcass she carried but careful not to bump the knapsack. Somebody muttered, “I guess that little toy crossbow actually works,” but Qora pretended not to hear, resisting the urge to tell the man that it was actually a compact military weapon and if he ever had doubts about its functionality, she’d have been more than happy to demonstrate on his chest.

Sakay looked up from the fight. “Qora.” His gaze trailed to the eoraptor and a grin broke across his face. Before he could say anything else, the young fighter in the enclosure landed a punch so hard something cracked. Gorgo cried out and lunged forward.

The audience chanted what Qora assumed was the younger fighter’s name. Ninan! Ninan! Ninan!

Ninan shifted from the center line and threw a power punch, utilizing the force of Gorgo’s own attack against him. Qora cringed.

Meanwhile, Sakay was bobbing and weaving like he could steer the fight from all the way over here, fueled by vicarious energy.

“Sakay.” Qora snapped her fingers twice, but Sakay’s eyes were fastened to the fight. “I don’t have all the time in the world.”

He swatted the air in her general direction. “Give me a minute.”

Her shoulder ached under the eoraptor carcass, which she heaved onto the counter. Blood finally flowed freely into her right arm, making it tingle.

The fighters circled each other, shuffling their feet, upper bodies jerky with feints. Gorgo’s muscles bulged, threatening in their size, but the weight of them added a lag to his movements. He was always an instant behind, always just shy of landing a hit. Ninan slipped most of Gorgo’s punches and rolled seamlessly with the rest. In between, he attacked from a low angle, exploiting weak spots. Within seconds, he wrestled Gorgo to the floor and pinned him there, cranking the man’s arm at an angle that sent a crawling feeling down Qora’s spine as she watched through a fence of her fingers. The referee counted to ten and the crowd chanted the numbers with him in unison, erupting at the end.

Ninan released Gorgo and stood tall. Then he snatched a cup of pisco from someone in the audience, chugged whatever was left inside, and slammed it to the ground. The ceramic shattered, shards spewing everywhere. He raised both fists high and everyone cheered again.

Sakay applauded. He stroked his chin and sighed before he finally took a good look at the heap of animal flesh Qora had set before him. He reached out to examine the reptile. Even in this dull light, the scales were a lustrous, rosy gold. The reptile also had a long, elegant skull and fine purple quills down the back of its head. He ran his hands over the scales, slick and gleaming.

Any other day, Qora would have been eager for him to praise the kill, eager to argue with him over what he would owe her for it. But today, her mind was elsewhere. Today, her kill was only an excuse to talk to him. Her heart hummed. She looked around to see that everyone was still engrossed in their games and their trades, then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “There’s something else,” she told him. “Something I need to—”

The sound of a screeching chair cut her off. One of the seated men stood, slipping both hands under the table in front of him, upturning the whole thing. Everything on the surface went flying. Pink and red stones plinked as they spilled and spread out over the wooden floor.

“You think you can pass off that second-rate rumipuka as rosinqa mineral?” The man picked up the other trader by his shirt collar and balled a fist.

Sakay groaned. “I have to take care of this. Wait here.”

“But—”

“Just hold on, alright?”

Qora turned away and set her elbows on the counter in front of the eoraptor, burying her face in her hands and resisting the urge to scream into them. Sakay would be angry—of course—when he saw what she’d caught, but he was the only one who could help her, the only one she could trust. Instead, he was worried about two idiots squabbling over rocks.

It wasn’t those rocks that were causing the real conflict anyway, she thought. At that very moment, a man in the corner was discreetly trying to sell a sack of skyrock pebbles. Now that was a rock to squabble over. 

Qora craned her neck to observe the exchange, the way the trader leaned forward and kept his voice low, his right hand forming the sign with all four fingers touching the thumb—the rough shape of a dinosaur’s head. Who could resist the ability to subdue most reptiles with one substance? These celestial rocks, controlled and processed by the qhapaqs for centuries, would never come cheap, though—not when most people believed that Sky Mother herself had dropped them from the High World so humankind could survive among monsters.

Qora had seen these deals often enough by now that she could recognize them at a glance, and was wondering if she should warn Sakay this was going on under his uncle’s roof when a whistle—a descending pitch—cut through the background noise.

“Nice kill,” said a voice.

Qora glanced over to see Ninan, the boy fighter. Glistening with sweat and marked with emerging bruises, he pulled on a gray, striped poncho. One corner of his mouth rose as the dark skin of his chest disappeared beneath knitted wool.

Warmth flooded Qora’s face. She stepped back, unsure whether the boy was sincere.

“Incredible reptiles,” he continued. “And a nightmare to catch, from what I’ve heard.”

There was something almost regal about him, Qora thought, and she couldn’t decide whether it was his posture or his demeanor. It was subtle, but noteworthy. Otherwise, he was as rough and ragged as most of the others here. Dirt under his fingernails, a few scrapes and scratches, the odor of sweat floating off of him. Not that any of that necessarily bothered her.

What did bother her was that he didn’t seem to be looking directly at her when he spoke. His gaze seemed to fall somewhere past her shoulder. She subtly turned her head, at which point she caught sight of an older man just on the other side of where she stood.

Qora clenched her jaw. It was enough to momentarily put off her frustration with Sakay, who had become distracted—yet again—talking to some red-lipped woman selling potions made of dinosaur blood.

Ninan’s thick brows pulled together and his eyes flicked from the eoraptor to Qora, then to her crossbow. “Oh. I’m—I’m sorry,” he said quickly, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I just assumed it was your father’s.” He indicated the man behind her.

“My father’s dead,” Qora said.

One of the traders at the nearby tables chuckled and said, “Best not to upset the kid. She can be moody sometimes.”

Qora’s crossbow, fully loaded, burned against her hip. She maneuvered the weapon into position and aimed at the trader. One click and the bolt zoomed out and pierced the loose fabric of his sleeve, nailing it to the table. The man jerked back so abruptly he tipped over in his chair, his sleeve ripping clean through as he fell, leaving only a scrap of material attached to the landed bolt. He scrambled to get back up. “You little—”

“Enough,” Sakay interjected, coming toward them. He stopped in front of Qora and turned to face the man, blocking him from her view.

“You have a problem with me talking to this little kantuta, huh? We all know you only let her come around for what she trades you in private.” He clicked his tongue and winked.

Qora spanned her weapon again but Sakay grabbed her wrist and held her in place. “She doesn’t miss unless it’s on purpose, so consider yourself the beneficiary of her kindness. I’m sure you won’t see that twice.”

The trader spat on the floor and wiped his mouth with his torn sleeve.

Sakay stood a little straighter. “Get out, or I’ll let her shoot you for real.”

The man narrowed his eyes, challenging Sakay, who, in response, shrugged and released Qora. Qora loaded a new bolt and the man put up both hands.

“Okay, okay.” He muttered several curses under his breath, then gathered his things and stalked out.

Sakay whirled around and crossed his arms, glaring down at Qora. “Do you think you can manage to keep your bolts in your quiver for once, please? My uncle’s trying to run a business here, and I’m sure he’d prefer that it didn’t all go to ruck on my watch.”

Ninan twisted his lips.

“Is this funny to you?” Qora demanded.

“No,” Ninan replied. “I didn’t mean to offend you. If anything, I’m even more impressed now that I’ve seen your skill in action—”

Qora scoffed. “Oh, now you’re more impressed?”

Sakay took her by the elbow and pulled her away from Ninan. “Would you relax? You can’t be in here five minutes without riling up at least one of my patrons, and I don’t have the patience for it today.”

Qora jerked her arm out of Sakay’s grasp and pinned her gaze on Ninan like she would a target in the woods. “Of course. How inconsiderate of me. I wouldn’t want to disturb the great company you keep.”

“Don’t rag on them too much,” Sakay warned. “I’ll probably be paying you out of the golds I just made off this one.” He patted Ninan on the back.

“What did you put money on him for anyway?” Qora asked. “I thought Gorgo was your favorite bet.”

Sakay shrugged. “Decided to mix things up a little—bet on the underdog for once. Except it turns out he wasn’t much of an underdog after all. Quite the stylist, no need for brawn. It’s like he trained with professionals.” He looked at Ninan. “Twenty golds on you for the next fight?”

“Can’t make the next one,” Ninan replied. “Previous engagements.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Sakay gave a terse nod.

Ninan reciprocated, then left to collect his winnings, and Qora bored imaginary holes into his back with her eyes.

Sakay smirked. “I thought you didn’t have all the time in the world …”

Qora scowled back at him. “I don’t. You’re the one who’s been off flirting with swindlers.”

“She wasn’t a swindler. Aquilops blood is a legitimate painkiller and anti-inflammatory. And jealousy isn’t a good look on you, kantuta.” He emphasized the word satirically, but it was still a cutting remark. The men in here liked to belittle Qora this way, hunters and traders who thought she was too young and fragile to handle a weapon—soft as the kantuta blossoms that grew between the highlands and the eastern forests.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Come on, I’m kidding. If you’re any kind of flower, you’ve got more thorns than petals. You’re the kind with toxic pollen, or one of those carnivorous sundews that gobbles up insects.”

Qora’s knapsack bumped once against her ribs, reminding her what she was here for. “Are you going to pay me, or what?”

“See? That’s exactly the attitude I’m talking about.” He returned to the eoraptor and pried open its mouth. “You know, I’ve heard these smaller teeth make for some fine little necklace beads. Apparently the women in Qolqe are crazy for them. But they have to be just the right size …” He tested the sharpness with a fingertip and hissed.

“Sakay. I’m not here for the eoraptor.”

He paused to look at her squarely. “What?”

Qora darted her eyes at the knapsack, which, as if on cue, began to stir. “There’s something else. Something I found after I hit the eoraptor.”

Sakay glanced around. “Come with me.”

In the storeroom, he closed the door behind them and steered her away from it.

“Don’t be mad.” Qora held the knapsack, its captive creature quickly turning restless. Her fingers trembled as they worked at the drawstring, making the knot worse with each tug.

Sakay put both hands on top of hers. “Calm down. You’re never going to open it like that.” He took it from her and loosened it, careful to keep the creature from bursting out all at once. 

The small opening was enough for that tiny, toothy snout to reappear, snapping and snarling, before the creature shoved up and revealed more of its iridescent-green head. It flapped its wings inside the knapsack.

“A raptoriva?” Sakay all but shouted the word, startling himself. He glanced at the door. “Are you crazy?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

He growled through his teeth. “Seriously—Were you even thinking? Spirits, Qora. I swear. The only time you aim first and shoot after is when you have your weapon. When it comes to anything else, you do the exact opposite.”

“I need the money, Sakay. And if you can connect me with the right traders, this’ll get me a rexload. I don’t have much time. Weeks, if I’m lucky.”

Sakay jerked back as the raptoriva reared its tiny green head, revealing a splotch of red on the underside of its lower jaw. He held it by the neck, the rest of its body swaddled in the knapsack.

Qora didn’t want to reckon with her conscience. Of course the raptoriva deserved to fly free. But it would certainly be well cared for—idolized, even—in some highborn’s aviary, well fed, groomed daily.

“I can’t lose another brother,” Qora said. “Please. Will you help me?”

CHAPTER 2

A tunnel of curved bones marked the entry point to the quinoa farming community of Thak, and although the tunnel had been made from the rib cage of an enormous sauropod—such that walking through it gave the sensation of being swallowed up and digested—it seemed a small embellishment when compared to the vast fields of red-tipped stalks that lay beyond. The surrounding mountains were not as tall and looming as those closest to the capital, but they stood proudly, faded and green against the horizon.

Ninan swayed on the back of a rhabdodon as he rode through, holding reins in one hand and rubbing his sore jaw with the other. The reptile beneath him had scales as red as the quinoa, with black markings and a shawl of black-and-white feathers over its shoulder blades and forelimbs—a smaller cousin breed to the iguanodons that had helped plow the fields this past spring. She was no megaraptor, though, Ninan thought. Sure, she didn’t require meat to survive, and she could shift between bipedal and quadrupedal posture … but she was slow. The memory of swift cliff rides on raptorback induced a painful sense of longing. 

Here in Thak, the air was thicker and warmer, and the work was endless. The people lived a good fifteen miles from the city, but they seemed content in this remote place, harvesting grain and weaving cloth and spinning wool. 

Twenty-five adobe homes faced a central gathering place. Women hung laundry while children collected dried llama dung for the evening fires and hefted grain to the storehouse. Ninan gazed up at a rising pillar of smoke, which signaled the workers to come in. It was a method he’d only seen in remote areas like these, where people often spread out far and wide. The “smokers” were made of saltpeter and sugar—heated until the two created a thick substance—rolled up inside a thick papyr tube that burned quickly.

The men, young and old, who had been deep within the crops, sickles rustling, began to settle their motion, throw the last few bundles onto the drying heaps, and merge homeward.

Ninan slid from the rhabdodon and walked her to the dinoshelter, inadvertently drawing several children toward him as he went.

One of the boys, who wore a colorful woven cap with earflaps, shoved his way to the front. “You’re back!”

“What’d you bring us?” said a little girl as she huffed to keep up.

“Bring you?” Ninan said. “Why do you think I’d bring you anything?”

“Come on,” said a second boy.

Reaching the dinoshelter, Ninan removed the rhabdodon’s saddle, along with his own belongings, and nudged her into a stall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have anything you’d want.”

“Please?” said the girl. She looked to the rest of the group, a collection of ragamuffins of various heights in various states of disarray—from dirt-smudged faces to worn, rough-spun clothing with patched knees—as if for confirmation that they all deserved whatever hidden goods Ninan might possess. One of them held three squirming compsognathus hatchlings as casually as if they were an armful of potatoes. The children all nodded with pleading enthusiasm.

“You won’t be interested in what’s in my bag.” Ninan pulled the strap onto one shoulder and patted the main compartment, which was stretched over a lumpy mass. “It’s just sweet anise bread and fried squash cakes.”

The children all chattered at once, swarming him with their tiny fingers. 

“Alright, alright!” Ninan held the bag above his head. “Everybody line up.”

With impressive speed, they arranged themselves along the shelter wall, several of them bouncing on their toes as they waited.

“Now don’t go getting everything all sticky, alright?” Ninan said, doling out the breads and cakes. “Your mamáys will never let me hear the end of it.”

They all nodded and immediately bit in.

“Off you go, then.” Ninan shooed them out of the shelter like wild sciurumimus and watched them skitter back to whatever they’d been doing before.

As he removed the rhabdodon’s reins and hung them, Pidru appeared in the doorway. The boy was close to Ninan’s age, but more slimly built, with a weariness that seemed to add to his years. His dark hands were rough from labor, his clothes worn thin because his father had used them for years before he had. He carried a small sickle and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” said Pidru. “Now that it’s quitting time.”

Ninan frowned. “Don’t be scaly. I came bearing gifts.” His bag was empty now, but he was sure Pidru had seen the children on their way out.

“I’ve been here all afternoon busting my hindquarters while you’ve been wasting money at the market?”

Ninan withdrew a handful of silver coins from his pocket. “I think I can spare it.”

Pidru scowled but took one of the coins and turned it over a couple of times. “You don’t have to be such a showoff, you know.”

Ninan clicked his tongue and grinned. “Come on. You’re not really mad, are you?” He offered the rest of the coins. “Your mamáy can finish paying her taxes now. At least for the season. I pull my weight, even if it’s not cutting stalks.”

“You think you’re too good for cutting,” Pidru said.

“I’m not good at it. Everyone here can out-cut me in their sleep. They look at me like I’m a complete ruckhead. Anyway, who needs a sickle when I’ve got these?” He held up his fists, all bruised and swollen.

 “You are a ruckhead,” Pidru replied. “Or at least you will be if you keep taking punches like that.”

“But I’ll be a well-to-do ruckhead, won’t I?”

Not that the money Ninan could make on his own would ever compare to what he used to have, but it certainly seemed to stretch further, the farther one lived from Qhusi.

Before Pidru could argue, a girl poked her head in, black hair in a top knot. Her nose, in silhouette, was the same shape as Pidru’s, although smaller. “Pidi, aren’t you coming to eat? Mamáy wants to know if—” She spotted Ninan an instant later and gasped. “Ninan! Where have you been?”

Ninan winced when she wrapped her arms around his waist too abruptly. “Hi, Tamya. I went to Qhusi for a bit of work.”

“‘Work’?” Pidru repeated.

Tamya deflated and released Ninan. “You mean you were fighting again.”

“You don’t have to make it sound like a crime,” Ninan told her. “It’s perfectly legal—and lucrative. Anyway, how did you know? When did you get so smart?”

She shrugged. “I’m not a kid. I notice things.”

Pidru shook his head. “Twelve is still very much a kid, Tamya. Although, so is eighteen—for some people.”

Ninan blinked at him, unamused.

New smoke—this time from the cooking fires—carried the scent of roasting maize and vegetables all the way to the dinoshelter, reminding Ninan it had been a while since he’d last eaten. He’d hurried to get home from Qhusi, and his entire supply of breads and cakes had been depleted upon arrival. Little velociraptors, he thought. His stomach leapt.

He followed Pidru and Tamya to the central gathering zone, where families produced a variety of foods to share among the community.

Oviraptor meat sizzled on spits over flames. Sweet potatoes roasted in clay ovens. Pidru and Tamya’s mamáy diced small peppers with some of the neighboring women.

Another woman worked at a griddle made from a sheet of flat stone laid over river rocks, with a blazing fire underneath. She motioned for one of the older girls to bring a basket of dinosaur eggs—large ones that could barely fit in one hand—and began cracking them onto the hot surface.

Within a few minutes, everyone had a ceramic bowl of something to eat, a bit of this and that, with corn beer or well water to drink. Ninan tried to go slow with his hash of sweet potatoes and corn, knowing the other boys his age had much more of a right to scarf down their food like starved reptiles, having cut hundreds of pounds of crop without a rest. He sat next to Pidru on a short retaining wall, eating quietly. Tamya was perched on a different wall among her friends, nibbling on a piece of corn bread. For all the work everyone had put in to harvest the quinoa, none of them ate a bite of it; it all went to Qhusi, mostly for interterrenal trade. The grain was a profitable commodity, much more valuable for business than as everyday sustenance for the locals.

Pidru flexed his fingers, all callused and cracked.

“Oh,” said Ninan, setting down his bowl. “I almost forgot.” He fished around in his bag until he found a small container and gave it to Pidru. “For quick healing.” Quick as silvers can afford, he thought. It wasn’t the near-magical cure of tyrannosaur or spinosaur marrow he himself had once had access to—a godsend for some of the deeper lesions he’d suffered in the past. But of course that kind of medicine could only be obtained in far-off places and on dangerous missions. To these people, even simple ointments from psittacosaurus oil were a luxury.

Pidru examined the container. “You’re the worst, you know that?” He opened the ointment and dabbed a bit of it onto his palms, then rubbed them together and sighed. “You make it a chore to hate you—and sometimes, I really want to hate you.”

Ninan nodded. “That’s fair.” He knew he hadn’t been the most agreeable guest. Ninan had been quiet about where he’d come from, desperate enough to accept the kindness of strangers who were willing to feed him and give him a place to sleep. If he’d told them the truth, they never would have let him stay. And since then, he’d tried to keep up and learn, but even after almost a year he hadn’t been able to fully adapt to this lifestyle. He longed for the air at high altitude, for the megaraptor paddock at dawn, for thick dino steaks and fine pisco, for a bedmat set off the ground and stuffed with ornithomimid feathers. He missed his old friends, regardless of how quickly they’d renounced him the second he’d fallen from grace.

Glancing at Tamya, Pidru added, “I always used to wish I had a brother.”

“Is that right?” Ninan said.

Pidru pinched his lips together like he was suppressing a smile, and returned his attention to his meal. “I guess you’ll have to do.”

Ninan gave Pidru a shove, and Pidru reciprocated with double the force.

***

A short while later, two children raced by in a frenzy. Ninan and Pidru looked up to see Tamya joining them, followed by several others. 

“The courier’s back!” Tamya said over her shoulder.

Heads lifted from their food. People turned toward the source of excitement. Children were practically skipping through the community, informing each household in turn. Anyone inside their homes emerged, peering out with a curious and hopeful gaze.

A man emerged from the far end of the road, meandering toward the people on the back of a green avaceratops—a smaller ceratopsian with two front horns, a mottle of brown down her back, and a splay of colorful feathers across her frill. 

The community members bustled, and while Ninan would never fully understand the excitement over such a small event, he supposed he couldn’t really blame them for looking forward to it. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to do but work, and worry about paying what seemed to be exponentially rising taxes. Those who couldn’t pay were often forced to donate time to state crops, or to other industries that served the qhapaq, like the skyrock quarries. Some even died there.

Ninan looked at Pidru, who cast a wistful glance at the setting sun. He’d told Ninan that he’d always used to watch it with his father—returning after the day’s work was done to admire the trimmed field—the evidence of their labor awash in the glow of dusk. But Pidru never returned to the fields after work anymore. 

The courier passed through the sauropod-rib gateway and slid down from his reptile’s saddle, its back lumpy with packages. The community members went to him and gathered around, each giving him their names and a description of what they’d been expecting.

It was an interesting ritual, Ninan thought, the way the people showed off what they’d received, read letters together, shared news from the city.

The news this evening, however, was dominated by the upcoming Venture. The event everyone had been talking about for months was finally about to begin.

Ninan recalled the previous Venture, whose prize had been a chest of rosinqa gems nested in a den of smilodons. A weeks-long journey through Allpa’s tropical savanna, facing dire wolves and several species of deadly spiders in addition to some of the more prominent dinosaurs—particularly dracovenators, who liked to bite off the heads of their prey before digging into the rest of the body. As if the journey hadn’t been enough on its own, the competitors had then been required to successfully evade or kill the dozens of vicious saber-toothed cats that guarded the prize.

Competitors never had a clue what they’d signed up for until the announcement that took place three days prior to their sendoff. And even then, they were only told the prize they’d be chasing and given a map to guide them to it. The true danger wouldn’t be revealed until someone arrived at the end. But if they could make it, they’d earn the item and an enormous sum of money.

Two Ventures ago, the prize had been an ancient artifact—the golden shield of one of the qhapaqs who had ruled the Old Empire—to be found upon the snowy peaks of Huandoy. When the final three competitors had reached the appropriate summit, they discovered that the shield had been installed among a colony of pterodaustro, whose long bills were lined with hundreds of thin spike-teeth. Before emerging victorious with the shield, the champion had had his right arm torn from its socket and shredded before Venture watchguards had finally come to retrieve him.

Every endpoint was a long journey from the start, to test the endurance of the competitors—and give them time to interact along the way. These interactions were made public as the Venture coordinators sent out heralds, who flew over the competition route daily and returned to the city with updates. Artists depicted scenes, and fictionists spun stories, and everyone sat on the edges of their seats biting their nails. 

Plenty of the people who entered weren’t even expecting to win; they only wanted the potential fame that would come with the spectacle of it all. They might have to give up and turn back halfway through, but they’d return to a nation that knew their names—at least for a while.

For others, it was financial desperation that drove them to enter, the prize itself and the large sum of money that came after obtaining it. Only fifty competitors from each Terrain would be selected—after a series of entrance trials—and each competitor’s family was guaranteed a smaller sum of money if they died along the way. In fact, landmarks at each leg of the journey functioned as checkpoints, guaranteeing payments for reaching them.

Ninan suspected it was easier to construct narratives for the competitors when they had compelling motivations for competing. The man whose property would be lost if he couldn’t pay his past-due taxes. The orphan who must prove himself worthy to marry a highborn’s daughter. The greedy gambler who never met a challenge he didn’t like, so long as there was a monetary prize involved.

Unfortunately, a good number of them would die within the first twenty-four hours.

Although Ninan missed the city—only having recently mustered the courage to sneak into its lowlier venues to fight—he was grateful, at least, to be away from the tiresome reminders of the Venture (with the exception of these bits of chatter from the locals about it). The public’s growing terrenal pride only reminded him of the emblem that had been permanently inked on him in infancy, the one he could not erase but which no longer granted him any status.

And then, as though these thoughts of his former life had magically summoned a demonic, physical manifestation of it, a shrill sound halted the conversations around him.

Ninan looked up. His breath lodged in his throat.

A man in a dark uniform soared over the distant treetops on a single-rider flying reptile—a giant albino pteranodon with faintly dappled wings. He tore through the sky, the pteranodon’s wingflaps stirring the air as he crossed into the quinoa field.

“Mullu,” Ninan whispered. He looked around, pulse beating like a ritual drum. The people had turned raucous, scattering in in all directions in a panic.

Mullu descended, coming straight to Ninan, arrow to prey. Whether Ninan were to run, hide, fight, it didn’t matter; his whereabouts were clearly known. The qhapaq could raid the whole of the farming region if Ninan tried to disappear.

Pidru was positioned to flee but hesitated, seeming to sense that Ninan knew something. 

Tamya took Ninan’s hand and tugged at him. “Come on!”

The pteranodon tipped back its point-crested head, opened its mouth, and screeched.

Ninan gently pried himself from Tamya’s grasp. “This is about me. I’m the one he wants. You both need to go.”

Tamya and Pidru exchanged glances, but Ninan shouted “Go!” and they both headed back toward the houses, although not without casting concerned looks over their shoulders.

 Mullu landed the flyer like they shared one mind, fluid and sure. Perfectly graceful except that the half-ton pteranodon was so large, it crushed quinoa stalks fifty feet across before it came to a full stop and tucked away its wings. 

Ninan forced a confident stance.

There was a time when his confidence wouldn’t have been forced in front of Mullu, though, he thought. Back when the man had known him under a different name. Respected him. Would have had to kneel before him. 

Chief attendant to the qhapaq himself and Mullu still had had to obey Ninan’s command. But those days were over.

In another fluid movement, Mullu dismounted and turned to face Ninan, no more than two yards from where the boy stood. He was dressed in black, wearing a helmet with skyrock embedded on the rim. On his chest, he bore the symbol of the Three Crescents in red. He brandished a skyrock-tipped staff, then nodded at the saddle strapped around the base of the pteranodon’s neck.

“Get on. Your father wants to see you.”

CHAPTER 3

In near darkness, the abandoned dye bath outside the stone house looked like a pool of blood, color-sapped petals and mashed berry skins floating on the surface. That careful balance of ingredients to produce the perfect hue had been for nothing, Qora thought.

A rainbow of loose yarn skeins hung from the drying rack, flecked with wind-blown debris and beginning to tangle. It had been weeks since Qora’s mamáy had taken anything to market. 

Qora’s knapsack was empty now and her pockets were full, thanks to Sakay’s help, but she wouldn’t be able to get to an apothecary until morning—and she would have to go all the way across the city to the Kichka District to find the right one.

It had been an eerie meeting with the smuggler—the man Sakay had determined would be the most discreet and generous. Qora had been instructed to arrive at a specific location on the outskirts of Qhusi, and to come alone, no exceptions.

“This is a bad idea,” Sakay had said. “I can’t just let you go alone.”

“He explicitly said he won’t meet me any other way. It makes sense to have as few people involved as possible. The fewer witnesses, the better.”

“Or he wants to take advantage of you.”

Qora had given him a sharp look.

“Financially,” Sakay had clarified. “I didn’t say who my ‘client’ was, or any details about you—for that reason.”

“Thank you for the forethought, but I’m used to people trying to push me around. And I’ll have a weapon.”

That hadn’t quite satisfied him, but eventually, he had let Qora leave.

The location had been a narrow, deserted passageway between city buildings, where the smuggler had already been waiting. He’d been broad shouldered and fierce, in a wide dinoleather belt and alpaca-fiber cloak dyed black. One look at him and Qora had felt she would have just as soon turned back, forgotten the whole thing—but it would have been worse to have given up so quickly.

“Well, you’re practically an infant.” His comment had made Qora wish she’d thought to take out her braids, but even though they aged her down, they kept her hair off her face in the windy woods stalking prey. Still, the smuggler had been impressed with Qora’s prize and had been surprisingly easy to deal with. 

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Now Qora huffed and dodged the brood of little, feathered compsognathus that squeaked and scuttled across her family property, taking care not to step on any tails. Qora had bred them from wild hatchlings to keep mice out of the grain, and to lay eggs for cooking, but the compies reproduced so quickly it seemed like they were everywhere all the time—and their bright-green coloring made them hard to miss.

The property was cramped compared to the land Qora’s family had once owned. It certainly wasn’t the meadow near the foothills, whose lush grasses Qora’s mamáy had named her for, but the plot was livable.

Qora’s family even kept a dozen alpacas within a palisade, covered in a rope net to keep out reptilian predators. Mammals were precious commodities—for wool or fiber to make textile yarns, and also for milk—and most people were lucky to have any at all. For that reason, it was best to only make meat out of reptiles.

Inside, the house was cluttered with different pigment sources. An open sack of red hibiscus blossoms dried out from neglect, bowls of tara pods and collpa once meant to produce a slate-like shade of blue, and ch’illca leaves—the same kind Qora had used to dye her bayeta jacket green.

Regardless of so many aromatic items, however, the whole place smelled of holy wood, its sweet scent catching Qora off guard. Her eyes fell first to the bowl on the floor, where a tiny bundle of the blunt-cut wood pieces smoldered, and then to the kneeling shaman, who wore woven skirts over her narrow hips, a necklace made of some small dinosaur’s vertebrae, and an embroidered cap with little beads around the rim. The shaman knelt over a bedmat, where a young boy lay half asleep, and spoke rapidly in a soft tone to invite Sky Mother’s blessings. 

Qora’s oldest living brother, Hakan, stood off to the side with their mamáy, head bowed. At just thirteen, he was taller than everyone else in the house. Tight-lipped and wide-eyed, he seemed to warn her to stay back and keep quiet, although Qora already knew she was in trouble for her late arrival.

As the shaman shook a bundle of chakapa leaves over the small boy’s body to cleanse the energy that surrounded him, Qora’s mamáy clasped her hands, grayish and stained from all her years working with dye. 

Her mamáy was a petite woman, but her energy—when it was at full force—could dominate a room. Lately, though, she was like a rag that had been wrung too many times, lank and drab with her energy sapped out. Even her onyx-black hair, which she wore long but tied back, seemed to have lost its luster.

Qora remembered the time “before.” She remembered her mamáy’s vibrant hope, her round belly that seemed to have grown from nothing overnight. She remembered spending summer days scampering in the grass with Hakan, the two of them pestering Ollan, whose deepening, adolescent voice occasionally sounded like the screech of a newborn rhamphorhynchus. She remembered the day that her mamáy had suddenly turned quiet, how the shaman had then pulled Qora aside to explain that the child her mamáy had been carrying had turned quiet, too—permanently.

It hadn’t been the first of her mamáy’s children to turn quiet. Thanks to Qora, it hadn’t been the last.

Ollan’s voice had been so loud just before turning quiet, Qora thought. So loud, she didn’t think she’d ever not hear it again.

Qora—run!

Baby Rimaq had come shortly after the loss of the previous pregnancy, a bright ray in the darkness, but his light was dimming now. 

He looks so small, Qora thought of the boy on the bedmat. Littlest brother, beacon of hope, consolation. His doll-perfect face was sallow, specked with blisters, some crusted over while others remained red and tender. Bits of dried mucus had accumulated on his thick lashes. His eight and a half years seemed like nothing in the wake of this illness.

The shaman continued to rattle chakapa leaves, employing different rhythms and motions. She followed this ritual by wafting tobacco smoke over Rimaq, and finished with a song of healing.

After a series of parting pleasantries, the shaman saw herself out, leaving the family to themselves.

Qora’s mamáy picked up a clump of alpaca fiber and carded it with her fingers—an idle task to keep her mind busy, Qora figured, as she likely wouldn’t be spinning the fiber to yarn any time soon. Then her mamáy cast a sharp look at Qora’s boots.

Qora squinched her toes inside the dinoleather. In all the chaos with the raptoriva and the golds, and then having to wait for the shaman, she’d forgotten to take them off. Sometimes she liked to think that it was only their dirty nature that bothered her mamáy—the fact that they had mud and probably a little ruck dried onto them—rather than the boots themselves. Under different circumstances, maybe. As it was, Qora and her mamáy had very different ways of grieving.

Hakan, seeming to sense the tension in the air, cleared his throat. “I’m going to go put the compies in their coop for the night.”

Once he’d gone, Qora said, “Sorry I’m late,” then slipped her feet out of the boots without untying the laces and set them outside the door. 

“Sky Mother’s envoy spirits require devotion from everyone in the household,” her mamáy said.

Qora frowned. “Does Sky Mother really just want us to stand around pleading for miracles? Wouldn’t she rather we actively went out and looked for them?”

“You mean by wasting all your working hours stalking reptiles in the woods?”

“That’s not—”

“It means nothing that I’ve asked you repeatedly not to do it? There’s plenty of work in the city, but you’d rather risk your life—and my sanity—tromping through ruck?”

Qora huffed and went to her brother. She knelt beside the bedmat, resisting the urge to stroke the boy’s cheek, knowing it would only cause him more pain. Instead, she settled on slipping her hand under his palm—one of the few places where the theropox had not affected him.

“City work is a con,” Qora said. “People drudge away till their fingers bleed and get almost nothing at the end of it. I can spend the same daily hours hunting dinosaurs and trade them for the same or even three times the wage.”

“You never know when to quit, Qora. As if it’s not enough that you nearly lost your life once, you have to tempt the keepers of the Grave World again and again …”

It was true, Qora thought. She didn’t know when to quit. Or maybe it was that she simply couldn’t quit. Not since she’d first realized she could kill a reptile for more than its meat. The market, always flush with dinoleathers and bone jewelry, had been proof of that. The shimmer of a dromaeosaur-leather belt hanging on display, the clack of sharp tooth-bead necklaces dangling against each other. People wanted those skins; they wanted those teeth. They were willing to pay and Qora was eager to receive. It was a power she wanted to wield, no matter the risks. More than that, it was a way to spit into the face of her demons, to tell them she would not be driven out in fear.

“I can get the sparkshade,” Qora said.

Her mamáy’s fingers, tangled in alpaca fiber, paused. She looked at Qora. “What?”

Qora stood and took out a small, velvet sack. She turned it upside down, spilling several gold coins into her palm.

Her mamáy covered her mouth and stared at the coins for several seconds, inhaled slowly and said, “What have you done?”

“I got what we needed.”

“You know what I mean. That’s gold, Qora.”

“It was a trade.” She offered the coins to her mother, who flinched like they were cursed. “You won’t even touch them?” Qora asked. “Rimaq is so fragile, Mamáy. I’d trade my soul to give him more time. Maybe I just have—but if I did, it was worth it.”

It was the only way they ever would have been able to afford sparkshade, a silver honey produced from the nectar of inqa-lillies grown in soil laced with skyrock dust—and the singular product known to be able to obliterate deadly viruses.

“I appreciate your dedication to your brother, Qora, but you must not fall victim to a false dilemma. It doesn’t have to be your soul or his life. There must be a way to keep both. There are other ways to solve this.”

Qora sighed. “What—more prayer? More rituals?” She slipped the coins back into the sack and offered them again. 

Shakily, her mamáy accepted, brows furrowed. “Promise me you haven’t brought a curse on our home with these golds.” 

“I can’t promise that. But I can promise I’ll get the sparkshade, and that the sparkshade will help Rimi to recover. He’ll have the strength he needs to fight the theropox.” 

Her mamáy held the sack to her chest and eyed Rimaq, who had fallen asleep. He was half covered, because it hadn’t seemed right not to have a blanket on him at all, but a mist of sweat glistened on his face. 

“Qora, you can’t keep doing things like this. I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re trying to … prove something.”

Qora sat back down beside Rimaq, trying to imagine how they’d ever cope without him. Sometimes it felt as though everyone she’d ever loved was leaving her behind in the world, one by one. First Ollan, then her papáy. Now Rimaq. 

“I know you wish it had been me instead of Ollan.”

Her mamáy sighed. “Again with the false dilemmas …”

Paying closer attention to the sweat on her brother’s hairline, Qora pressed a hand to his forehead. He winced at the contact.

“He’s too warm,” Qora said. “I’m going to get him some water.”

She hurried to the well behind the house.

When she reached the well bucket, she dipped her head back and growled. The handle had fallen off again, its rusted metal and splitting wood prone to malfunction.

She fumbled with the parts, trying to make them fit back together, but each attempt seemed to cause everything to fall apart all over again. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder—a delicate touch. Qora stopped.

She wasn’t sure how she’d let her mamáy sneak up on her. She supposed it was because she’d spent more time attuning her senses to dinosaurs—hours sitting up in high branches listening to their sounds and observing different species, their packs, their patterns, their habits—rather than to people.

“‘Be precise or do it twice,’” her mamáy said. 

She was always spouting similar phrases, and this one more often with Qora than with Hakan or Rimaq, which made Qora angry. Qora, of all people, knew the importance of precision—the precise way to hold her weapon, the precise spot on a reptile to shoot for a perfect kill—but there were times when she couldn’t fathom how anyone could worry about small details when a situation demanded fast action. That was the irony of being hasty or impatient, her mamáy would have said: Haste often led to mistakes, and mistakes would often cost double the time to repair.

Even in her anger, though, the motherly touch calmed Qora a little. She slowed down, concentrated, worked the pieces again, and within a minute she had everything set up to draw the water. She felt her mamáy’s hand slide gently away. While she longed for that touch, she also felt a certain sense of relief without it. Qora had done too much harm to deserve it.

It was unnatural, Qora thought, to feel so distant from the woman who had borne her, from the woman in whose body her fragile life had formed. Now it seemed they couldn’t be farther apart, even standing right next to each other. The most familiar strangers.

“Thank you for getting the golds,” her mamáy said quietly. “But … please … no more of these kinds of risks.”

Trembling, Qora nodded once. “I’ll go to the apothecary at dawn. And that’ll be it, I swear.”

As Qora’s mamáy took her hand, a pair of copper-helmeted men emerged on megaraptors, treading onto the property.

Qora withdrew, feeling instinctively for her crossbow even though she’d left it inside. 

Her mamáy’s eyes widened with concern. “City officials?”

The officials dismounted and approached Qora directly.

Relax, Qora told herself. There are plenty of reasons for—

“What is this?” her mamáy demanded. “What’s going on?”

Qora backed away but the officials flanked her. One of them took her by the arm. “You’re under arrest.”

CHAPTER 4

Ninan peered over the side of the pteranodon at the wafting mists that spanned the gorge below. It was only as the mists parted that he had a full view of the steep drop that separated Sumaq’s capital city of Qhusi from its ruling Kallpa House. The thinner mists, which hung like sheer curtains in front of the castle itself, blurred its details, much the way Ninan’s memory of his old home had been blurred in his mind all these months. No matter how many times he’d arrived from the sky just like this, no matter how many years he’d spent at the castle as a child, the whole place seemed to have lost its sharpness whenever he’d tried to picture it lately. Now, as the pteranodon dipped for its final descent, Ninan felt his stomach dip too. 

This was real. He was returning home.

But why?

His exile from this high place—from his titled place among his family—was supposed to have been permanent. He wondered if his recent prizefighting had somehow drawn the attention of the qhapaq’s staff, if his presence in the city—even incognito and in an obscure place like the Underground—had displeased the supreme leader. Would Ninan be punished for it now? He swallowed hard.

The pteranodon landed on one of several stone-paved landing pads that made up a large, open area leading up to the castle’s entrance. Nearby, a pterobeast gondola full of Kallpa House staff was simultaneously set down, while another carrying a couple of ambassadors lifted away. Other pteranodons, which were only a third of the size of the pterobeasts, arrived and departed around them. The flyers screeched at one another, but otherwise did as they’d been trained to do. Ninan had always found their posture disturbing, the way they propped themselves up on their forelimbs, which looked like inverted elbows—made worse by the little claws that protruded from the bend. At least these ones had some feathers, he thought, thanks to the cooler mountain climate; on past travels he’d seen desert flyers with nothing but skin and scales that drew attention to their jagged, bony figures. He flinched as the nearest pterobeast swung its massive head around and twisted its long neck; its equally long and pointed beak could knock out a passenger with one swipe.

For that reason, the handlers wore skyrock-studded breastplates and helmets, and carried skyrock-tipped staves and plenty of skyrock dust to keep the flyers in line.

The bigger the breed, the more you need.

Mullu slid down and motioned for Ninan to do the same, removing his riding gloves and revealing the Three Crescents—branded onto the right back of his hand—that all employees of Kallpa House bore.

The mists thinned again, an inevitable break in their constant ebb and flow, revealing the magnificent carved-out walls and pillars of Kallpa House. Other walls, constructed high and wide, set the castle apart from the initial slab, while the mountainsides that had not been carved up—at least not to such an extent—were cut into flat tiers, each landscaped for a different purpose.

Ninan immediately picked out the reptile paddocks on the lower levels and the combat training grounds above them, with several levels of specialized microcrops in between, and garden viewing areas on top.

As Mullu escorted Ninan into the courtyard, workers looked up from their activities, many of them stunned with recognition. Mullu, however, gave them his typical, granite-faced warning glare and they all averted their eyes.

Ninan and Mullu then passed a grand fountain, with its spinosaur statue at the center spewing water from its mouth. Multiple stairways came into view, some leading up to balcony terraces and higher levels of the qhapaq’s home, others leading downward to cellars and subterranean storehouses. 

A reptile handler headed off toward the menagerie carrying an archaeopteryx whose wing feathers were a gradient of magenta and yellow. An impressive addition, Ninan thought, although he didn’t like to think about the underhanded ways Qhapaq Apo got his hands on exotic animals—mostly reptiles—for his collection.

Finally, Mullu led Ninan to the summit hall, so called for both its high-point location within Kallpa House and its use as a gathering place for important meetings. It had been the location of many negotiations between Qhapaq Apo and leaders of other Terrains. It had also been the last room of Kallpa House that Ninan had set foot in before he’d been forced to leave, the place where his fate had been determined.

Inside, four high-backed seats were set against the wall. The largest seat was made of mahogany and carved with a collage of carnivorous reptiles.

Fitting, Ninan thought, although he remained silent as Mullu directed him to stand before the empty seats.

Tapestries lined the hall, bearing embroidered scenes of historical battles or epic encounters from folklore, most involving fierce reptiles and shiny blades; one depicted a scene from Sumaq’s legendary air battle with the Kastillans, fought on the backs of pteranodons over the Urubamba Mountain Range. Racks of spears spanned the east wall, relics of the ruling family’s ancestors, fletched with expensive dino feathers. 

Various birds and reptilian flyers were on display throughout the space, many of which Ninan could not name. They were all rare, of course, and so Ninan wasn’t sure why he bothered to try and recognize any of them anyway. Epidexipteryx, he was fairly certain, was the name of the one by the door. Another, on the far wall, was likely a nyctosaur, as he’d heard such reptiles had similarly long, branching head crests. The only one he knew for sure, though, was the little green one that held the place of honor in the gilded cage at the north corner: raptoriva, a shimmering flyer with four wings. There had been a few sightings of these recently, owing to the volcanic smoke covering so much of the eastern coast and driving them westward. 

Mullu stood off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back. Moments later, Qhapaq Apo entered, dressed in sleeveless red and black robes that bared his tan, muscular arms. He wore the gold-plated likeness of the top half of a spinosaur skull as a headpiece, a special sort of crown that flaunted the terrenal symbol—because although the Terrain of Sumaq no longer incorporated the lands where such large predators dwelled, it had once been the hub of the Old Empire that had. The spinosaurs were endangered now, and what was left of them remained only beyond the Pirqas.

The qhapaq set his square jaw firm and looked at Ninan. The man was silent, however, and took his seat right of center. 

The quyas entered behind him, three wives dressed in robes similar to that of their husband. Their dark arms were more delicate, and decorated with gold bands. The first wore a crown of gilded dinosaur teeth, while the second and third wore simple circlets. The first took her place to the left of the qhapaq, and the other two sat on either side of the central pair. It was a visual representation of the arrangement that all Sumaqi leaders upheld: a primary wife whose child was assumed to continue the family line, and two additional wives whose children would act as reserves—should the first prove inadequate. Three wives, in similitude of the symbol of the Three Crescents. Once each had produced a male child, the qhapaq was to lie with her no longer. For this reason, the qhapaq kept an entire wing of the castle dedicated to his mistresses. Additional children would be illegitimate, of course, although many would go on to serve the qhapaq closely in some way.

Ninan found himself reaching toward his mother, the third wife, but quickly retracted his hand and made a fist at his side. He mouthed the word mamáy and the woman heaved a breath that seemed to be relief—as she had, after all, been unaware whether Ninan had lived or died—her dark eyes watering as they met Ninan’s. He pressed his lips together and gave a subtle head bow, wishing he could speak to her, but he wouldn’t know whether that was possible until the qhapaq provided the reason for calling him here.

“Apo-Kimsa,” said the qhapaq.

Ninan flinched at the sound of his name—his real name. 

His Majesty Qhapaq Apo Kallpa, because he was so grand and formidable (having taken power at the ripe age of seventeen) had named each of his sons after himself: Apo-Huk, Apo-Iskay, and Apo-Kimsa. But no one had called Ninan by his birth name in so long, it hardly seemed to belong to him anymore. 

“I’m called Ninan now.”

The qhapaq stroked his chin, taking in Ninan’s appearance. “Hmm. Well, I suppose it suits you. A common name for a common boy.”

Of course it did, with his unkempt hair and his muddy boots and a face tinged with bruises. Nothing about him was princely anymore. He couldn’t even fully remember what that felt like.

“One of the few things I’ve chosen for myself,” Ninan replied

He thought again of the emblem tattooed on the back of his neck just below the hairline, a small shield with a roaring spinosaur inside of it—the emblem of both the Terrain of Sumaq and the Kallpa family alike. His hair was just long enough to cover it, but it lurked there, a reminder of his now-lost heritage. It was a tradition of royal families to mark their children this way, the very beginning of the things that would be forced upon them.

“Oh, you chose many things for yourself,” the qhapaq argued. “You chose to gamble away your monthly allocations at raptor races and high-stakes token exchanges. You chose to disgrace the House of Kallpa in public on numerous occasions. And you certainly chose to find yourself among renegades during a time when our nation’s image has grown fragile. I’m not sure what you expected from me, but it certainly could not have been lenience or mercy.”

Ninan couldn’t argue with that. He had indeed spent his money on games and bets and drinks. He’d gotten into drunken brawls and stumbled into the wrong places, one of which has been some sort of gathering of renegades. It had been unintentional, but his presence there had been enough to brand him a traitor and get him banished from Kallpa House forever.

Ninan shook his head. “I didn’t expect anything. I stopped expecting anything from you long before you stripped me of my title and flew me out to the wilderness to fend for myself. If there was one thing I might have expected, it was that you wouldn’t care enough about me to notice I wasn’t around—much less what I was doing while I was out. But … I guess you only notice those beneath you when they harm your ego.”

If Ninan hadn’t been expecting it, he would have missed the hand gesture the qhapaq directed at Mullu, who promptly stepped forward and struck Ninan across the back with a skyrock staff. 

Ninan bit his tongue to keep from crying out, and crumpled to his knees. On the way down he caught a glimpse of his mother’s face, her eyes glossy with emerging tears—but she kept her trembling hands folded in her lap against the fabric of her dress, her fingers ringed with rosinqa stones. 

Once he had steadied himself, and the initial onslaught of pain had subsided, Ninan asked, “Is this what you dragged me back here for? Another beating?”

“While I’d relish the chance,” said the qhapaq, “to discipline you further … no, it is not. I’ve brought you here to present you with an opportunity.”

Opportunity? Ninan kept from laughing only to avoid another strike against him. He’d heard that word too many times from his father, and it was always intended to make the listener believe they were the recipient of some grand prize when, in fact, it was a proposition. Qhapaq Apo didn’t “extend opportunities”; he made business deals.

“An opportunity for me?” Ninan said in a noticeably inauthentic tone. “I’m honored. Here I was wondering how you found me—why you would have even bothered to look for me at all, especially considering I’m not one of your heirs anymore.”

“Yes, well,” the qhapaq said, “There wasn’t much looking to be done. Prizefighting isn’t the most inconspicuous of activities. Especially not for those with skills like yours.”

Ninan huffed. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”

“A compliment, perhaps, to the instructors that I appointed to train you—many of whom you disrespected and whose lessons you missed. It’s no wonder you lack achievement in other areas. I’m surprised anything stuck.” The qhapaq stood and approached him, emphasizing that he had to look down to meet Ninan’s eyes.

“Then I guess I don’t understand why you think I’d be interested in this … ‘opportunity,’” Ninan replied. 

“An opportunity that you do not deserve, but which I am willing to extend in order to restore the broken image of the Kallpa household. The Terrain is in need of a more united mentality.”

“You must be awfully desperate if you need my help to do that.” Ninan caught sight of his father’s commanding gesture once again, but this time he reflexed fast enough to catch Mullu’s staff in a tight fist. In the same motion, he sprang to his feet and twisted the weapon away, flipping it back on the assistant. 

As Mullu prepared to unsheathe a blade, the qhapaq simply said, “Leave him be.”

Mullu let up, reluctantly, and kept his eyes trained on Ninan.

“A point for my son,” the qhapaq told him. “In whatever game he thinks we’re playing.” He began to walk in an observational circle around Ninan, looking over his appearance, his posture. He took the staff and returned it calmly to Mullu, then turned back to his son. “You’ve always been adept at defending yourself with your hands, Ninan—setting the bar high for your brothers, despite their age and size over you—I won’t deny it. I allowed them to test you. Encouraged it, in fact. Somehow, you always managed to hold your own.”

Sure, Ninan thought, if holding his own meant taking dozens of punches to the gut before he’d finally figured out how to block properly. If it meant narrowly escaping the full force of Apo-Iskay’s favorite knife—which had left a deep scar on Ninan’s upper ear—until he’d learned that his brothers were incredibly fallible without their weapons and thus had developed underhanded ways to manipulate them physically. 

The qhapaq stopped to face him. “The question is … Can you employ your skills for a greater purpose?”

Ninan had to fight to slow his breath, to tamp down the anger that simmered just under the surface of his composure. “What purpose would that be, exactly?” 

“The purpose of redemption,” said Qhapaq Apo. “I’d like to offer you the opportunity to earn back your title—to return to the life into which you were born, and regain all the privileges that come with it.”

Ninan shook his head in disbelief. Earn back his title? His inheritance? His “honor”—whatever that meant? 

“How?” he asked.

The qhapaq rested his palm on one of the trapezoidal plates of his necklace. “Our longstanding laws state that one who has been disinherited, even in cases where treasonous behavior is concerned, may be both redeemed and restored, should he perform an act of valor, particularly when such an act is done within the context of nationalism.

Ninan narrowed his eyes. “I’m listening …”

 “Enter the Venture” said the qhapaq. “And win.”

Ninan scoffed. “Are you insane?” He should have known it hadn’t been the end when he’d been disinherited. The qhapaq had always been particular about his image, about the image of his household—and his first attempt to cleanse it hadn’t been enough. Especially not when the other Terrains were watching. “You want me to participate in that stupid game? Those are your terms? If you want me dead, why don’t you just execute me yourself? It would look much better publicly—really show off how ruthless you are.”

“The Venture is a display of skill and endurance,” Qhapaq Apo said sharply. “A tribute to the warriors and hunters and crusaders that built the Old Empire, with its vast trade networks and its mines and quarries. The whole of Runaqa will be watching. I, even in my eminent position, can’t redeem you simply by saying so—no one would truly recognize your place or respect you—but if you can endure the Venture—at least make it to the end alive—you’ll have earned back your place in the eyes of not only Sumaq but all Five Terrains. If you can manage to win, even better.”

Ninan inhaled slowly, stiffly, taking it all in. Lips pursed, heart pounding. His father couldn’t be serious. He was likely asking Ninan to traverse hundreds of miles of some kind of wilderness, and face countless wild and vicious reptiles—and that was to say nothing of the desperate and greedy competitors who would fall all over each other with blades. Stepping on the others. Murdering anyone who got in their way. The Venture was a call to some of the most brutal people on the continent. Everyone else would be quick casualties.

“For your own safety, you would not share your true identity until the games are over. You would compete in disguise, acting as a common Venturer,” the qhapaq explained. “How convenient that you already embody the part.”

“I’ll embody the part of a dead man. There’s no way I can do this. I’d be lucky just to make it past the first few days alive—and you want me to try to win?”

“Kallpa House will provide you with resources, so far as we’re allowed to do,” Mullu explained. “You’ll be given state-of-the-art weaponry, advanced armor, an ample food supply, skyrock and skyrock dust to protect you against the reptiles. All discreetly, of course. Hidden under common clothes and within a common carrying pack.”

“I’ve appointed Mullu as a herald,” the qhapaq added. “He’ll keep an eye on you—although, this being an international event, the other Terrains will be watching as well, and we can’t allow anyone to believe we’ve assisted you or shown you favoritism. This would defy the entire purpose of the assignment.”

“So this isn’t really about me proving myself. It’s the illusion of proving myself—to preserve the image of Kallpa House.”

“The House to which you will once again belong, so long as you manage to survive. Then we’ll tell everyone you’ve returned, all heritage restored. I think it will be a wonderful conclusion to the Venture, for the Five Terrains to witness your redemption at the champion’s homecoming ceremony.”

Ninan’s mother gave him a pleading glance from her seat, even though she knew he couldn’t easily say no to this. Kallpa House beckoned him. The view of Qhusi from above, the clear mountain air, the comforting mists. His old room, his old clothes, and clean, abundant water. He’d never be hungry and he would once again have the Terrain at his fingertips. The dark shadows of the household seemed minimal when he really thought about it—like the silly nightmares of a child, which he could dispel with logic. And, after all, Mullu had said he would be given every possible resource at his disposal during the Venture—food, weapons, protections. Many other competitors could only afford to leave with the clothes on their backs and a bit of hunting gear. Some were good in combat but lousy at feeding themselves, while others were decent hunters but couldn’t hold up against better fighters. If Ninan was careful and could avoid making enemies, all he would really need to worry about would be the challenge at the end, whatever monster guarded the prize. Even then, with the state-of-the-art weapons he’d been promised, he might be able to do it. Who cared if his father only wanted to repair his own reputation? Ninan wouldn’t have to hide anymore, or worry that someone might discover his past.

Although it did also occur to him that he might never see Pidru or Tamya again. He didn’t imagine it would be permitted that he spent time in such places, but he was no stranger to sneaking out when it suited his whims. Would his friends forgive him, though, once they knew the truth?

He’d been considering the details for too long, hesitating. The qhapaq stepped forward and said, “Or maybe all that bravado that first lost you your princehood is the extent of your courage. So courageous in your rebellious acts against your household, but no bravery in sight for something that actually poses a true danger.”

Ninan’s jaw clenched in response. He lifted his chin and met the qhapaq’s eyes. “Fine,” he said. Maybe it was time to show his father what he was really made of. “Let’s get started.”

CHAPTER 5

The creak of rusted hinges spurred Qora to consciousness and she squinted at the morning light. She wasn’t sure when she’d actually managed to doze off, between the drunken moaning that had come from the cell beside her and the sheer devastation of being there in the first place. She rubbed her eyes and rolled her neck, her whole body tight from having slept curled up on the floor. It was as though she’d taken a physical beating, even though it had been more of an assault to her entire sense of self.

The guard held the barred door open and Sakay appeared behind him.

“Spirits, Qora—are you alright?” Sakay rushed toward her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her over, then examined the cell as though it had been some kind of torture chamber, but there was nothing except a bench, an empty water cup, and Qora.

“How did you know I was here?” Qora asked.

“I got word that some of the reptile trades had been compromised, so I went to your house to check on you, and your mamáy told me what happened.”

With an impatient gesture toward the outside of the cell, the guard said, “Any day now, kid. I’m not going to stand here forever.”

“You’re really just letting me go?” said Qora.

“Temporarily,” the guard clarified. “Thanks to your benefactor.”

Sakay didn’t meet Qora’s eyes. 

“No …” Qora said. “You don’t have money for that.”

“I made a little extra on an ‘underdog’ yesterday,” he reminded her. “Besides, this is my fault. I never should have let you make that trade. I should have talked you out of it.”

“Like you could have?”

“Fine, then. I should have tied you up and gagged you while I set the little flyer free.”

Qora stepped out of the cell and the guard escorted her and Sakay to another officer, who explained what would come next.

“Your case has been evaluated and your course of discipline has been determined,” he said. “You have four weeks to pay in full.” He returned her belongings and then issued her a document, rattling off the legal details in a dull tone, informing her that because of her age and because she was not yet married, her parents were responsible for whatever sum she was unable to pay on her own, and that the fine could only be forgiven in the event of her death, in which case the city would not pursue her family financially—only because she had not inflicted permanent damage to property or persons, and because she would be unable to offend a second time, on account of not being alive to do so.

Qora looked at the number and her stomach twisted itself into a hard knot. A strangled voice came out of her. “This is more than everything I own. More than my family’s land. My arresting officers have already seized my profit from the raptoriva—isn’t that enough?”

“This is a first offense,” Sakay told the officer. “She’s a kid.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said the officer. “Fifteen is the legal age of criminal accountability and she’s seventeen. Plenty of girls her age are responsible for entire households.”

“Is there really no other option?” Sakay asked.

“If she’d rather sign a labor contract, we can arrange it here.”

“An indenture,” Qora concluded. “Work for free until the fine is paid?” And of course that would leave her unable to hunt, or even work for a regular wage that she could contribute to household expenses. Without her help, her mamáy would never be able to keep up. Not to mention Rimaq wouldn’t likely survive the next few months if he didn’t get that sparkshade, which may have been stardust for how financially out of reach it was from Qora now.

“With a sum like this, though,” said the officer, “You’d be looking at ten to fifteen years. You’d be required to live in the labor dormitories and would only be allowed to leave upon full payment.”

Sakay’s mouth hung open. “Ten to fifteen years?”

“Due to the fact that criminal wages are less than half the terrenal minimum. Although, at her age, and with a bit of cleaning up, she might be able to pay off a few years sooner if she’d be willing to perform”—he lowered his voice—“special favors.”

Qora recoiled. Sakay lunged at the officer but Qora held him back; as much as she would have liked to give the man a bloody nose, she didn’t need another crime on her record.

“Didn’t think so,” the officer said, straightening his uniform. “I suggest you come up with a payment plan, and fast. Or tell your family to start packing.”

Qora followed Sakay to where he’d stationed his rhabdodon. 

“You go first,” Sakay said. “I’ll get on behind you.”

Qora stared at the empty saddle, her eyes burning with the tears that screamed behind them. Heat swelled in her chest, in her limbs, putting a fire in her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She put her hand on the saddle horn and slipped her foot into the stirrup, but she lacked the strength to pull herself up. Part of her wanted to go back into that cell, to curl up in the corner and stay locked away from the world, from the stupid things she’d done.

“Qora.” Sakay put a gentle hand on her back. “I’m sure there’s something we can do. Get on the rhabdo; I’ll take you home and we’ll talk about it.”

But Qora didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t face her mamáy after this. Her family would have been better off if Qora had done nothing at all. All their incomes combined couldn’t cover the fine. They’d have to forfeit the house, the alpacas, their land … and Qora would still be indentured for a decade or more. In fact, it would be better for her family if she were dead; like the guard had said, that was the only thing that could absolve her family now. She squeezed her eyes shut like she could block all this out for a second, but it was waiting for her like blinding sunlight on the other side, leaking through her meager defense. How could she have let her family down so horribly—again?

As she inhaled slowly to calm herself, a familiar-looking young woman cocked her head from across the street. “Sakay?”

Sakay turned to see the woman with her red lips and her dinoleather case of potions. 

Aquilops blood is a legitimate painkiller and anti-inflammatory.

Qora hadn’t noticed at the Underground just how long the woman’s hair had been, a black silk curtain that fell seductively over her shoulders and down her back.

Sakay seemed to give a little shake of his head, as if to say this wasn’t a good time, but the woman didn’t notice—or if she did, she didn’t care. She waited for a triceratops-pulled cart to pass and then raised the hem of her skirt a bit as she stepped into the street and crossed to greet him.

“Nice to see you again,” Sakay said, although he darted an apologetic look at Qora. “Qora, this is Sonqo. She’s a vendor—”

“I remember,” Qora said flatly. “I mean, I can see that.” She nodded at the potions case. If only mystical cures like those were as effective as advertised. Maybe children wouldn’t be dying of theropox.

“It’s been an incredible morning so far,” Sonqo told them, “what with all the excitement downtown.”

“What do you mean?” Sakay asked.

“I’ve sold almost everything I brought out today; in fact, all the vendors are making a killing because of the Venture. The city square’s packed with people signing up last minute.”

Suddenly Sonqo’s unnaturally red lips became more interesting for the information they conveyed.

Of course, Qora thought. She’d heard it on her way to the Underground yesterday afternoon. Today was the final day.

“That’s great,” Sakay said, with what sounded to Qora like forced enthusiasm. She hoped he wasn’t holding back on her account, but it didn’t matter anyway because she was about to leave them to their conversation.

“Yes,” Sonqo replied, “Although now that word’s getting around, vendors from all over town are starting to—”

“Excuse me,” Qora muttered as she gave the street a quick traffic assessment and stepped off the curb.

Sakay reached out but Qora was already halfway to the other side. “Qora! Wait! Where are you going?”

Numbly but quickly, Qora made her way up the street as though some other force was controlling her body. She pushed past other pedestrians and kept her eyes forward while Sakay’s voice faded behind her.

Within a couple of minutes, she reached the city square, where several long lines of people waited. At one end of the square were four booths, each with a registrar seated behind it taking names. And, as Sonqo had said, the place was crawling with vendors. 

They sold baskets of empanadas and netted bags of fruit, tonics for hair loss, beaded bracelets, newly cobbled shoes, quipus. Plenty of everyday goods, along with the occasional “potion” or other crackpot commodity.

One older woman sold dimetrodon eyeballs from a jar. “Breach the cracks of a broken mind!” she said in advertisement, “Heal an injured brain! Achieve mental clarity! Open the mind to innovation and creativity! Receive revelation from the gods! Used by history’s greatest artists and inventors!”

Sakay had mentioned trying one of these before, known colloquially among traders as “brain berries,” but he’d said it had tasted like a meaty grape and had had no effect on him whatsoever—other than upsetting his stomach. 

Regardless, Qora couldn’t help thinking that a little mental clarity wouldn’t hurt her right now, were it truly possible to obtain it from a jar for a silver or two.

A lot of dinosaurs and pelycosaurs did have truly mystical qualities, though. Powdered pachyrhinosaur horns could give a miraculous (but short-lived) burst of physical energy; pegomastax urine could fight infections; ground-up struthiosaur scutes could combat anxiety; bone marrow from a tyrannosaur or other oversized theropod could supposedly rapid-heal deep flesh wounds. That was all thanks to evolving alongside the skyrock—which was ironic, since skyrock caused the reptiles so much discomfort. But these things were not as easy to come by as some vendors and traders would have people believe. Almost anyone who purchased such mystical items was usually paying for llama eyeballs, or human urine, or genuine desert sand.

Most people ignored the woman and her jar. Hopeful entrants waiting in line partook mainly of the food, while surrounding spectators or encouraging friends and family made up the bulk of other customers.

Qora stopped to watch from the fringes and looked over the people in line. Burly older men and eager teenage boys and hunters ready to test their skills. A woman got in line, too; she was tall and muscular and walked with an erect-shoulder kind of confidence.

Soon Sakay caught up, out of breath, and came to her side. He took one glance at her and said, “No. Absolutely not. Don’t even think about it.”

Without looking at him, Qora said, “Why not?”

A journey of a couple of weeks—or potentially less, depending on effort and setbacks—didn’t seem like so much time compared to spending the rest of her youth and then her young adulthood working for the qhapaq while her family was left to rot without her. And the prize and the money would be all she needed and more. There was no way she’d find a way to make that much money in the same timeframe by any other means. And Rimaq didn’t have much time. Meanwhile, each checkpoint would allow her to earn something toward her debt, so the longer she could manage to survive, the better.

“Because it’s suicide!” Sakay said.

The Venture didn’t intimidate Qora, in theory. She wasn’t unfamiliar with standing alone in a habitat full of dinosaurs and having to defend herself. She knew every groove of her crossbow and she could pick apart sounds in the underbrush like they were musical notes. She struck fast with accuracy. More than that, Ollan had taught her that the speed and size of an animal didn’t matter so much as understanding its limitations and exploiting them, outsmarting the animal in ways only a human could do. That was where human power lay, after all—in wit. Although it was her brother’s ghost that made the whole idea so terrifying. The stuff of her ongoing nightmares.

Blood rushed to her head. Memories cut across her mind like lightning veining over a dark sky. A reptile’s vicious roar, sharp teeth shredding flesh. Her screams. Ollan’s screams—and worse, Ollan’s silence that had followed.

She felt like she might vomit. Still, what terrified her most about it was also the very reason she had to do this. She couldn’t be responsible for the loss of another one of her mother’s sons. And there was money even if she didn’t make it to the end, too, which was something. Qora would be able to provide nothing during an indenture.

“At this point,” Qora said, “I’m worth more dead than I am alive.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. You were right when you said I’m a plant with more thorns than petals—that I’m toxic.”

“That is not what I said.”

“I’m like a poisonous vine that’s grown beyond control, and can’t help but cause destruction. If I get pruned back in this competition—or even fully uprooted—maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

Sakay scrubbed a hand over the buzzed side of his head and groaned. “Gods, you’re melodramatic. You can’t think like that. Take a minute to breathe before you jump on the first opportunity to be someone else’s target practice. Trading the raptoriva was that ‘shoot first aim after’ kind of situation I was talking about just yesterday, and this is too.”

“There’s no time,” she said. “Sometimes you have to shoot your shot, whether you’ve aimed well or not.” That should have been its own expression, she thought, like all her mamáys little sayings. It was truer than most of them, too. In any case, this was the only way to combat that “false dilemma” her mamáy kept warning her about; she wouldn’t choose between her family losing everything quickly or losing everything slowly—she’d take a chance for them to keep it all, even if she lost herself in the process.

“It’s not that simple. You can’t just sign up and immediately get in. There are entrance trials—tests you have to pass before you even have a chance at being selected—otherwise there’d be hundreds of participants from every Terrain. You might be an excellent shot, but what about speed? What about endurance? I heard you have to stay on the back of a raging carnotaurus for a full twelve seconds without falling off. Can you do that?”

Qora stepped into the registrar’s line. “I guess we’ll find out.”

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